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The Paral}ftic 


y.W: 


My Friend Will 


INCLUDING 

“The Little Boy That Was” 


By 

CHARLES F. LUMMIS 


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Author of “The Spanish Pioneers, “The Qold Fish 
of Gran Chimu, ’ ' etc. 



CHICAGO 

A. C. McCLURG & CO. 

1911 







Copyright 1911 
A. C. McCLURG & CO. 
Published March, 1911 






(0,CI.A2S38i)2 


To the Owdicils of My Friend Will — 
His Children: 


BERTHA (^Tiiauan), the First-Born 
TURBESE, the Sunburst 

JORDjIN {Quimu), the Little White Lion 
KEITH, the Bah^ Troubadour, and 

AMADO, The Little Boy That Was " ' 


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“OiVE THAT WAS PARALYZED 

( 1888-1892 ) 

Pent in a prison of myself, 

A/p soul steps thrice and turns about; 

Or climbs upon its narrow shelf. 

From bloodshot windows to glare out 

It beats upon the sullen cla^ — 

The c/ap that breathes and still is dead. 

It butts against the walls alway. 

And stamps around within mp head. 

The J^notted arm that fought so well. 

Is numb and k^ows to strike no more; 

The legs that trudged the width of hell. 

No longer lift me from the floor. 

A/p vcrp tongue is touched of death — 

A dog is not so dumb as I 

Who love, and cannot give it breath; 

Who hate, and must unspoken lie. 

And Will, the Captain left alone. 

Sits dazed within his room io-da^ 

And sees his adjutants disown 

The orders once the^ sprang to obe^. 

But no! This mumm}; be mp shell. 

But not mp fate! Betrayed, bereft 

Of followers, in the citadel 

The Master lives — the I am left! 


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FOREWORD 


nnHIS true leaf out of life was turned'^ in hope 
^ that it might help some one else. No man could 
so much open his own covers for less. 

Some sap it Was not wasted. From all over the 
world have come letters alleging that this sior^ really^ 
did help. 

The trouble is, so manp people want not Help, but 
an Elevator; and I have never qualified to run one. 
All I can do is to stand at the head of the stairs and 
call down: **T climbed ’em — so can pou.” But no 
self -pitying person will ever crawl up, 1 1 needs a back- 
bone — generally at the top end. No mollusks need 
apply. 

There have been scores that climbed. But what 
particularly led me to go further, and to make this 
separate booklet, was the case of Edward Marshall, 
that deathless-plucky war correspondent, whose spine 
was paralyzed by a bullet at Las Cuasimas in the 
Cuban War, While he was obeying the doctors and 
dying, as they advised, some one gave him My Friend 
Will, **just meantime,'* But then he said: ''Lord, 

*As the last chapter In “The King of the Broncos,” published by Charles 

Scribner’s Sons, who have generously consented to this reprint. 


Foreword 


if that duffer out there in New Mexico could do it — so 
can IF* And he did. 

He wrote me later: **That star}) saved mp life '* — 
but that is a generous mistake^ Marshall saved it. An]) 
one else could not for him. And for these dozen ^ears, 
against odds that would have killed a common man, he 
has been a useful citizen. If I was able to loan him 
my jack-k^ife when he wanted just one little edge in a 
mans hand, I am glad I had the k^ife, — and glad to 
loan it now to any one else that can use it to Whittle 
His Way Out, 

There is no being ** carried to the skies on flowery 
beds of ease" — no more than there Was in the time of 
the amiable Dr, Watts, There are not even auto- 
matic crutches. You have got to sweat over them 
yourself. 

This story of what one man did is just a little saw 
for any one in the prisons of Fate; and it will cut the 
bars only IF he can use it. And the only way to use 
it is — to USE it, feeling that you are at least as much a 
man as Our Friend Will. 

C. F. L, 

Los Angeles 

February, 191 ! 





Alazan, ** starting’* with his ** lively paralytic * on board 


My Friend Will 

I 

U GH ! cried Dick, “ is n’t it horrible to see a 
man in that condition? I should think he’d 
want to die! What is he good for?” 

The gentleman who hobbled past was not a pleas- 
ant sight, truly. Paralysis had smitten down one of 
his arms, and weighed upon a side of his face, and he 
moved very unsteadily on his crutch. But to me he 
was not horrible; and I answered the last question 
only with: “Well, that depends on what he thinks 
he is good for.” 

But it set me to thinking; for tall and handsome 
Dick was not the only one I had found with such 
heresy in him. So few of us ever find out what we 
really are “ good for.” And the outcome of my think- 
ing was that perhaps I might just as well tell you the 
true story of my friend Will — or at least the outline 


11 


12 


M}) Friend Will 

of a few years of his variegated life. His experience 
has taught me more than all the books I have ever 
read, and perhaps there are others who can learn a 
little from it, too. 

To begin with, he was the hardest-headed fellow 
you ever saw ; maybe “ mulish would not be too 
harsh a word. The trait brought him no end of 
troubles, though it is only fair to add that it generally 
got him out of them, too. His bulldog persistence in 
having his own way used sometimes to make me 
laugh ; but he was so dead in earnest about everything 
that it was impossible to laugh at him for long. 

You see, I knew him better than any one else did; 
and, while our intimacy made it impossible that I 
should not realize his faults, I was inclined to be char- 
itable to them, and perhaps also to overestimate his 
virtues somewhat. 

This great obstinacy of his was the first element 
in the curious true story I shall try to tell you; and 
a second was his physique, which was as hard as his 
head. He was hardly five feet seven inches, but 
sinewy and agile as a panther, and of really extraor- 


Mp Friend Will 


13 


dinary strength. All over his body the knots and 
strands of muscle stood out like whipcords. He never 
bragged of this; but he knew his strength, and was 
proud of it, and gloried in it. 

He stripped 135 pounds, but he could lay his head 
on one chair and his heels on another and let a 
200-pound man stand on his rigid belly for a full 
minute by the watch. He had made one straight-away 
walk of 3500 miles across the continent, and hundreds 
of shorter but considerable trips on foot, on horse- 
back, and on the old high bicycles. He was a trained 
boxer, wrestler, acrobat, mountain-climber, and long- 
distance runner and canoe-man. 

Of all the people I have ever known, no other got 
so much comfort and quiet joy out of the possession 
of a perfect body that answered every call upon it. 
It had been sorely tried, too, on the frontier, in hard- 
ships and dangers that never come near the average 
life; and it had never failed him. More than once — 
aye, more than a score of times — it had wrenched 
him loose from the very clutch of death. So it is not 
surprising that he had come to look upon it with 


14 


Friend Will 


unlimited confidence. The vanity of a woman’s beauty 
is no greater than the vanity of a man’s strength. 

At the time when the story begins, the obstinacy 
and the strength had an ample field. My friend was 
then twenty-eight years old, in the very perfection of 
health and vigor. He had bought an interest in a 
young daily newspaper. The small city in California 
where it was published was just beginning to “ boom.” 
Immigration from the East had barely started in that 
wonderful tide which swelled the population of that 
town from twelve thousand to fifty thousand in five 
years, and to three hundred and nineteen thousand in 
twenty years more ; and worked almost equal miracles 
in all Southern California. 

With his partners. Will had a double ambition — to 
upbuild the town and the paper in the right way. It 
was still rather a frontier city, and almost entirely in 
the hands of the rougher element. The saloons and 
gambling houses had everything their own way, and 
were so powerful that it was deemed hopeless to 
oppose them. 

My friend’s daily pitched in “ by its lonesome ” to 


Mp Friend Will 


15 


fight for a new order of things, and waged a relent- 
less war on lawlessness. It was an unpleasant as well 
as an arduous three years, for the conflict was unre- 
mitting and to the knife. The element so long in 
power had no notion of yielding, and spared no pains 
to retaliate directly upon the editors. 

But the paper, besides being right, had more ‘‘ bull- 
dog ” than its adversaries ; and municipal and State 
election after election scored invariably a new victory 
for the law-and-order party. Step by hard-fought 
step the gambling houses were closed, the saloons 
repressed and restrained, the most dangerous dives 
shut up ; and, in a word, the swift-growing city became 
noted far and wide for its good order and clean admin- 
istration. 

Of course, only an infinitesimal part of this was 
my friend’s doing ; the votes that made such a striking 
change were those of the sober, intelligent people who 
had been coming in to settle. But it is probably fair 
to say that, without a fearless newspaper to lead off, 
the reforms could not have been accomplished so 
soon ; and certainly none of the voters had to do with 


16 


My Friend Will 


the threats, persecutions, and assaults which were the 
constant share of the editors of the only paper which 
cared or dared to raise its voice. 

This apparent straying from the story may give 
you to understand how a hard-headed young man 
with his impulses mostly in favor of decency — and 
maybe a little fondness for fighting in a good cause — 
would here become so interested as to make violent 
efforts. The paper, too, was pushing ahead ; its circu- 
lation swelled* and its influence grew stronger daily, 
since people found that though it might sometimes 
be mistaken, it was never venal nor cowardly. 

For his share of these results Will had worked 
like a Berserker. To him there was no day of rest 
in the year; and four hours, at most, in the twenty- 
four. He was up early, working at top tension all 
day long, and nearly all through the night. The last 
“ form ” had always gone down stairs and the presses 
were roaring, before he thought of leaving the office. 
He not only did not ask, but would not allow, any of 
his reporters to work one-half so hard. For months 


*2700 daily, then ; now 55,000. 


Friend Will 


17 


at a stretch I have known him to work twenty-two, 
and even twenty-three hours, a day. 

“ What a fool ! ” you will say, and quite rightly. 
But it did not seem so to him. He was not slaving 
for money — a thing he never worshipped — but 
working for love of his work. And you must remem- 
ber, too, that with such a constitution he could do it ! 
He was never tired — never! The months and the 
years did not abate his energy, but rather seemed to 

add to it. Other people broke down, but he 

Three years went by. The paper was so far in 
the lead that one of its presses alone would have 
bought out the whole establishment of either of its 
former rivals. 


II 


N ow my friend had a curious hint. His left 
forefinger “ went to sleep ” (as one’s foot 
does) and stayed so for a week. Then his 
legs, then his head, then his trunk, began to have the 
same odd tingling numbness. But he took it rather 
as a poor practical joke on him than as a matter to 
worry over; 

Warnings had been showered on him for years by 
his friends and by his many acquaintances among 
the doctors; but one might just as well have talked 
to a steel spring. He would laugh with good-natured 
tolerance, and say : “ Oh, yes, I know ; but there are 
exceptions to every rule, and a constitution like mine 
thrives on it. I’ve been at it all these years, and never 
felt better in my life.” Then his chest would take its 
four-and-a-half inch expansion, as if to prove his 
words. Even now, when the telegraph editor said to 
him one night, apropos of the “ sleepy ” finger : 
“ Mr. Will, if you don’t let up, you are going to be 

18 


Ml? Friend Will 


19 


paralyzed ! ” my friend looked at him in unfeigned 
admiration. 

“Do you mean to tell me, Bates,” he cried impetu- 
ously, knotting his left arm till the biceps actually 
split the sleeve, “you mean to say that when I tell 
this arm to do so and so it will disobey me? By 
heaven, I would like to see it ! ” And there was a 
glare in his eyes as if he would make short work with 
such unheard-of mutiny. 

A week later he did see it. 

That strange numbness kept coming; at times 
creeping so close about the heart that the strong 
thumps were like to cease; but he felt perfectly well 
that evening, as he drew up to his own fireside for 
a moment after supper — and suddenly toppled to the 
floor. The next thing he knew he was lying on the 
sofa, and a tearful face bent over him. 

“ Take it off me ! ” he gasped, for he seemed to be 
held down by a weight of tons. 

There was only a sad shake of the head for answer. 

“ But I will get up ! ” he cried, the old combative- 
ness coming back to the dazed brain. 


20 


Ml; Friend Will 


“ Don’t ! ” begged the watcher ; but he began to 
heave and strain till the veins knotted in his forehead 
and throat, and every muscle was rigid as steel. 

He had wrestled with the strongest men, he had 
fought with main strength for his life, but never before 
with so desperate an effort as now to throw off a 
weight no one else could see. 

After twenty minutes’ struggle he did get up, weak 
and trembling, but victorious. 

In a few moments his exultation fell at a terrible 
discovery. His left arm had mutinied. Struggle as 
he would, he could not move a muscle of it. 

I leave it to you, with what you know of him by 
this time, whether it was a blow to this young athlete 
to find himself — paralyzed ! The perfect body now a 
wreck, the perfect health a broken dream, and he a 
thing for people to point at pityingly ! 

But no one ever knew from him what he did feel. 
Even to me, his best friend, he said only, “ Ah, old 
boy, tough luck; no?” That first glimpse I got of 
his face he was very pale, but his lips were set, and 
there was more token of fire than water in his eyes. 


My Friend Will 


21 


“ Do ! I’ll go to the wilderness and live outdoors 
till I’m well,” he said; and off he packed to New 
Mexico, though barely able to waddle. “ Medicine? 
No, indeed! My constitution is doctor enough, if it 
has half a chance — and I’ll try to give it that half 
chance now. Me to the old Santa Fe Trail ! ” 


Ill 


F rom first to last he refused all doses and treat- 
ment; which indicates that, despite that disaster 
in the brain, the skull retained most of its 
hardness. 

Some very lovely Spanish people in the Territory 
had been his friends for years, and now they gladly 
welcomed him to their hacienda, a day’s ride from the 
railroad. They would have put him to bed and 
nursed him, for he could scarcely walk, and his speech 
was more or less affected; but that was not his notion 
of the necessary treatment. “ In bed,” he said, “ I 
can’t get away from myself; and that is what I have 
to do, or go crazy.” 

Every morning he sallied out into the sagebrush 
to escape himself by hunting. I fear it was a rather 
ludicrous sight, this tottering, wobbly Nimrod, clum- 
sily wielding the gun with one hand, and missing far 
more rabbits than he killed, and often dropping under 
a bush in sheer exhaustion. But no one laughed at it, 

22 


Ml? Friend Will 


23 


except himself. Indeed, I have seen friendly eyes 
turn misty on a sudden, when he “ guyed ” himself 
about it. 

As the weeks went on, he got further and further 
from the house; at first a few hundred yards wore 
him out. Juan Rey and the other boys had more and 
more jack-rabbits and cottontails to dress; Will was 
getting steadier on his legs, and already could use 
the light shot-gun skilfully with his one hand. He 
carried it on his shoulder, grasping it at the guard 
and “ throwing down,” just as one would a six-shooter. 

His natural amusement would have been writing, 
but now that was out of the question; for on top of 
his brain there seemed to be an actual iron floor, 
against which his thoughts bumped their heads in 
vain. Sometimes it lifted a bit, then it would sink, 
lower and heavier, till it seemed about to crush out 
his very life. 

So the evenings he passed with the family, playing 
quaint Spanish games, learning sweet Spanish songs 
— and something of the Spanish heart which he will 
never forget. If misfortune had taught him but that 


24 


Mp Friend Will 


one lesson of the brotherhood of man, I am not sure 
it would not have been worth while ; for I must say of 
my friend that before this he had been very ignorant 
and bigoted in such things. 

With March came ‘‘ lambing-time,” and Will went 
up to the sheep-camps and lived that hard life for 
months, keeping the shepherds in meat with his gun, 
and, at a pinch, working as hard as any of them. 
Sometimes after chasing a perverse lamb he would 
fall down, so weak was he, and lie several minutes 
before he had strength to rise; but then he would up 
again and at it. 

Sure, it was a great life. Up there at 7,000 feet 
on the north flank of Mt. San Mateo, March is what 
you might call cold. The “ house ” was built up of 
slabs of sandstone, laid roughly without mortar, 
** more holes than stones,” as Will said. Don Amado, 
the princely friend, told me only the other day that 
he recently saw the little corner where Will chinked 
a few feet with mud gathered up with his one fist 
during the rare thaws. The bed was a couple of 
sheepskins, with a couple of Navajo blankets, on the 



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Ti^e onc-handcd hunter and one day's bag of jackrabbits 







Mp Friend Will 


25 


dirt floor. There were no windows, and the door had 
nothing to shut. A drivelling rivulet had a pool filled 
up near by; and Will got an ice chisel from Albu- 
querque, and every morning chopped through eight 
or ten inches of ice to baptize himself with the morn- 
ing bath, which has always been one of his gospels, 
and is one of the reasons why he is still alive. When 
the ice got too thick for even the ice chisel, the drifts 
of powdered snow made a good rubbing-down. The 
Mexican sheep herders had their opinion of this crazy 
American that ran out, stark, at four in the morning 
for this bath and ran back to a rubbing with a gunny 
sack — and this opinion played an important part 
later in his fortunes; for even hired assassins were a 
little bit uncertain of aim when it came to beating 
the Gringo devil that bathed out doors at ten below 
zero. 

Much of the time was away from the little central 
camp, and out with the various flocks where there 
was no shelter; but the semicircle of juniper boughs 
made a windbreak. And the snow often came down 
a few feet in the night, to add to the warmth of the 


26 


Mp Friend Will 


blankets — this is no joke, for nothing is warmer 
than snow for a covering, if you have the right inter- 
mediaries. 

And in the wilderness camps, or in the little stone 
sieve of a ‘‘ house,” the juniper camp-fires crackled 
every night, no matter how fierce the winter was out- 
side. And some herder would have his bijuela — the 
jewsharp of the wilderness, made by bending a twig 
a couple of feet long into a bow, with a piece of linen 
thread, and played exactly like the jewsharp of our 
boyhood. And what quantity of songs of the wilder- 
ness they taught him ! In later days he has “ canned,” 
with Mr. Edison’s wonder-working machine, over 
eight-hundred of the old folk-songs of the Southwest. 
But among the dearest of his repertoire are those sim- 
ple ditties he learned around the wintry camp-fires of 
New Mexico nearly a quarter of a century ago. 


IV 


O NE day it became necessary to send a freight- 
wagon fifty miles to the interior for supplies ; 
and there was no one who could be spared to 
take it. Don Amado was in a quandary. 

“ Let me go” said Will. 

“You!” cried Don Amado, in horror. “Do you 
take me for a murderer? What could you do? ” 

“ I could try,” was Will’s answer ; and he seemed 
really glad to be allowed, after long refusal, the 
dubious privilege. 

He scrambled to the high seat of the old Stude- 
baker, tied the reins short at the back of his neck — 
so that he could guide the horses by a tug on either 
line with his one hand — shook off the brake, and sent 
the broncos flying down the hill. 

I fancy Will had some doubts about the outcome 
himself ; but he did n’t “let on.” 

He steered the shaky vehicle (half held together 
with baling wire, which was then Chief of Repairs in 
New Mexico), and its wild span of broncos, over the 
rocky trail, crossed a very dangerous and difficult 


27 


28 M}) Friend Will 

arroyo, and, after many troubles, finally reached 
Acebache. 

Next day he had to start back in a wild storm, 
bringing six hundred pounds of corn and the meat of 
a steer, which he had assisted to round up in the 
mountains, and butcher and dress. 

The storm had sent down a flood. In the bad 
arroyo the wagon stuck, and the water was rising 
swiftly. So the one-armed Jehu had to drag to the 
bank, with his right hand and teeth, the three two- 
hundred-pound sacks of corn and the ponderous quar- 
ters of beef — and he did it! Then, with his bowie- 
knife, he dug away the bank until the tired horses 
could pull the wagon out to safety. Then he reloaded 
his cargo, and, at three o’clock in the morning, came 
clattering in triumph up to the camp at San Miguel. 

The superstitious shepherds began to look upon 
him as a wizard; but my friend found in these suc- 
cesses food for something deeper than vanity. He 
was learning a vital lesson — that he was still Good 
for Something, after all. If he could do this, then 
something else; and he began to find a keen delight 


My Friend Will 29 

in overcoming the obstacles that naturally beset a 
cripple. 

One very trifling conquest, just now, seemed to 
give him a disproportionate encouragement and 
buoyancy. He was a sad smoker, and, in the wilder- 
ness, had no recourse except the little brown-paper 
cigarettes of the Mexicans. At first the boys rolled 
them for him ; but one day he cried, “ No, if I can’t 
smoke without help, I won’t smoke at all ! ” 

Then he looked sorry he had said it, for he was a 
fellow of his word, and every one needs two hands 
for the cigarette-making. Rather anxiously he took 
a paper and a pinch of granulated tobacco. H’m ! Not 
so impossible after all! For, twisting partly with his 
right thumb and forefinger and partly with his lips, 
lo! he had a rude but smokable roll. In a little while 
he grew expert at it, and for years was known all over 
the Southwest as The Americano that rolls cigarros 
with one hand.” And once in a while he does it yet — 
just to make sure he can come back.” 

From this point he made rapid progress. No 
hunter in western New Mexico killed more game; and 


30 


Mp Friend Will 


he began to take long walks, and horseback rides of 
hundreds of miles, and to carry his big old-fashioned 
camera and glass plates into all the corners of the 
frontier, and to make such intimate pictures of the 
Southwest as no one else has ever succeeded in get- 
ting. There was a good deal of hardship in it, and 
some danger. Several of his photographs were made 
at the point of the six-shooter. And one long after- 
noon while he ‘‘ shot” the successive phases of a savage 
ceremonial, with the big Colt cocked on top of his 
camera where the one hand could drop the shutter- 
bulb and clutch it, fearless Don Ireneo, and stanch 
Tircio, each with a .44 in each hand, helped stand off 
the mob — which certainly did n’t “ look pleasant.” 
He developed all the plates himself — often getting 
ugly cuts in the one-handed work — and made many 
thousand prints a year. 

He was now beginning to get back some of his 
old-time vigor — thanks to determination and out- 
doors — and as for handiness, quite ceased in time to 
miss the lost member. For that matter, a great many 
strangers never noticed his misfortune, for what he 


Mp Friend Will 


31 


could not help himself in, he preferred to let alone. 
I remember that in the beginning he often went 
without meat, if he could not cut it himself; never 
would he let any one cut it for him. But by now he 
could handle the toughest steak on the frontier, as 
plenty of cow-camps can testify. 

A few months later a second but milder shock 
threw him back very seriously; and, quite as hard to 
be borne, a strange turn of fortune left him without 
a cent in the world. 

I rather expected to see him weaken then; but he 
only shut his lips and went to work with a certain 
fierceness, but no longer blindly. He had already 
learned something ; and perhaps these misfortunes 
were really a good thing; for they gave his inborn 
pugnacity a worthy foe and a beneficial struggle. The 
“ floor was still in his head, but a little more buoy- 
ant; and as nothing else seemed feasible, he began 
literary work, a very little at a stretch. 

For the next two years my friend had what you 
might fairly call a hard time. Any steady or confining 
work was not to be thought of, and what writing he 


32 


Mp Friend Will 


could do brought very small returns, and far between. 
Sometimes he had even to borrow postage stamps to 
send off his articles. But he seemed never to get blue, 
and never “ ceased continuing.” 

Between writings — and along with them, for 
many were not done at the desk in the little adobe 
room, but in midnight trains along thousands of miles 
of the Santa Fe, and by lonely camp-fires, and to the 
jolt of a trotting bronco on the mountain trails — he 
tramped and rode over all the wildest corners of the 
Southwestern Wonderland; always with the gun, the 
huge old camera, and a bandanna full of other sup- 
plies. He made thousands of photographs, broke 
twenty-odd broncos from wild beasts to chums, cooked 
for himself by the camp-fire or on the top of a tiny 
heating stove where the frying pan had to have one 
side pounded in to fit against the stove pipe lest it fall 
to the floor. And his friends did n’t mind “ coming 
miles to see the dimple ” in that frying pan, and absorb 
its fruits, and to see him flop the omelet or the pancake 
to the ceiling and catch it t’other-side-up as it came 
down — one friend made a beautiful photograph of 


Breaking* * A lazan the second time 










M}) Friend Will 


33 


the pancake almost at the rafters, but unfortunately 
this is lost. There really was not much of anything 
which this contented hermit and rather lively para- 
lytic could not do, after a fashion. He not only shaved 
with his one hand (and not with a “safety,” either) 
in his bachelor adobe, but anywhere else. To this day 
the trainmen on the Santa Fe remember the man who 
waits for the crookedest stretch of track and the 
fastest running to take his shave — a sort of test 
whether he is ready yet to be Oslerized. And once, 
just to see what could be done, he shaved on horse- 
back, while Alazan trotted steadily along the rocky 
trail. There, are hundreds in the Territory who still 
remember his roping and riding and breaking the 
fiercest wild horses; and how he crawled into the 
mountain-lion’s cave a hundred feet, his one hand 
occupied with the single-barrelled shot-gun, and a 
long torch of the choky buckhorn cactus held in his 
mouth for light. Very fortunately the lion was not 
at home. And what Don Amado said when Will 
emerged, coughing and muddy — you might ask Don 
Amado, for I would not dare to print it here. 


V 


A t last he left blessed San Mateo, and the 
Spanish friends who had been as a whole 
Congress of Mothers to him, and went down 
to live in the Indian Pueblo of Isleta, to study these 
wonderful Indians. He became very fond of these 
brown neighbors, and they of him; he was adopted 
into the tribe and learned the language and the beau- 
tiful folk-lore — and the still more beautiful heart of 
a primitive people. In all his wanderings he never 
found a gentler neighboring and friendliness than in 
these years among the Tigua; and he never learned 
more of anything interesting or useful in any six 
years among much more famous teachers. 

A band of Mexican fanatics and desperadoes were 
not so brotherly. It began with his photographing of 
the Penitente’s crucifixion at the point of the gun; 
and then he was so foolish as to try to help bring to 
justice some of the brotherhood who had committed 
six murders, beginning with poor old Barrett and 


34 


Mp Friend Will 


35 


coming up to Provencher — and which scored No. 7 
on Will. New Mexico is one of the safest countries 
in the world, to-day; but in those days it was not so 
salubrious for meddling outsiders. For a couple of 
years this hunter knew for himself how it felt to be 
hunted, and to have a big bounty on his scalp. They 
didn’t like to face an insane person addicted to cold 
baths and of considerable predestination with the 
trigger ; but hired pot-hunters stalked him for a couple 
of years. Many times on lonely trails he was shot at 
from ambush; but whether it was partly his own 
watchfulness as to suspicious trees and rocks, or partly 
the superstitious nervousness of the hunters, or just 
mere luck — the rifle balls didn’t “take.” At last, 
disgusted with the inconclusive rifle, an imported thug 
ambushed him in the Pueblo as he stepped outside his 
own door on St. Valentine’s eve, and so riddled him 
with two loads of buck-shot at twenty yards that it 
is a miracle he refrained from joining Provencher and 
Barrett and the others over Yonder. He treasures 
some of the lead yet — inside. And the only outward, 
visible token of his last Valentine is a dimple — just 


36 


Friend Will 

where it was needed. After that, these superstitious 
fellows decided that he bore a charmed life; and they 
not only let him alone, but really came to like him 
when he rode back into their fastnesses to ask them 
if they had any more shooting to do. 

Then there came one day a letter with the deadliest 
news a letter could tell. And a flood of fire roared 
through his head, and he rolled from his chair. 

This third paralytic shock seemed to have finished 
even the cahezudo ( hard-head ), as the Indians called 
him. It left him unable to stand or to speak a word. 
He could move only by dragging himself along the 
floor upon his belly with his right elbow, like a crip- 
pled seal or a dog with three legs broken. He was 
on the very verge ; had he “ lost his grip ” even for a 
little while, it would have been all up with him. But 
he did n’t. The bulldog and the mule stood by him ; 
and he kept alive, to the bewilderment of the doctors. 

What time he lay in the hospital at Santa Fe, cared 
for tenderly by the blessed Sisters, was probably the 
crisis of all. But he held his unwilling mind by the 
throat, and made it serve him. Story after story. 


My Friend Will 


37 


verse after vepse, he wrung out from the oppressed 
head — and so kept from going mad. He even wrote 
for the humorous papers a great many sketches and 
jingles and quips, funny enough to make the public 
laugh, when he was furthest from laughing himself. 
The files of “ Life,’^ “ Puck,’’ “ Judge,” and “ Time,” 
and others of that sort, in that epoch bear witness. 

And it was at this time that his gospel of self- 
mastery crystallized — as in the verses at the begin- 
ning of this story, and in these which follow: 

CAPTAIN / 

/ have to ask no courtesies of Fate^ 

Nor plead for quarter at her reeking hands. 

My only fate am /; and soon or late 

It is and must be but myself that stands. 

Behind the corvard skirts of Circumstance 
I would not hide ( if ever one be hid ) ; 

For man is more than putty thumbed by Chance — 

For good or evil — what we are we did. 

Nor stormer nor betrayer Fate can he; 

None else but I can conquer my redoubt. 

E'en I am more than all can happen me — 

For happenings but hammer from without. 


38 


Mp Friend Will 


The citadel is smalU but *t is mine own. 

Impregnable unless surrendered o'er; 

Its gatev^a^ opens to Will's alone — 

A ^ep / ^eep on mp side of the door. 

But — like some other people — he found it not 
always easy to keep his own gospel. 

How he hated this wretched hulk! How his eyes 
flashed if any stranger presumed to look at him when 
he was taken out in the wheel chair ! Pity him, would 
they? Well, he would fool them — and the doctors, 
too! 

“ How are you, old man? ” asked a friend, during 
this crisis. Will reached for his scratch-pad, tore off 
a leaf on which a verse was growing, and wrote: 

“ All right. And bigger than anything that can 
happen to me. All these things are outside my door, 
and IVe got the key. Thank you.” 

I came across this paper afterward, and saved it. 
When I have any bad luck myself, it rather does me 
good to look at it. 

But the hospital and the wheel chair — and, above 
all, the second floor — were a little too much even for 


The little *dobt room in the pueblo where “ W ill 





A/p Friend Will 


39 


Will’s resistance; so directly he got transferred to a 
little old adobe whose floor was almost level with the 
ground, and where he could crawl out over the low 
threshold and play with the gravel and feel the touch 
of Mother Earth again, instead of floors; and while 
there is nothing like the Sisters for nurses — there is 
nothing for Doctor like the blessed ground! And the 
“ long Lane which had no turning ” (that was the 
owner’s name, and he was Secretary of the Territory) 
had ground to spare, and gravel and apple trees, and 
even soil fertile in those heavenly mudworms which 
were associated with Will’s youth, and the chickweed 
patch back of Gran’pa’s house. 


VI 


A FEW weeks later he watched with hungry 
eyes the goings and comings of gallant 
Perfecto, the Secretary’s horse — winner of 
many a famous race. One day he wrote on his tablet 
(the only tongue left him, you know) : 

“Lend me. I want to ride.” 

“You?” cried Lane. “Are you crazy? What 
would you do on a horse like that? ” 

“ Put me on and see,” answered the pencil 
scratches. 

It took a long argument, that spoiled several sheets 
of paper ; but at last the six-foot Secretary lifted Will 
bodily into the saddle, tucked his left foot into the 
stirrup, and away he went. Perfecto was a whirl- 
wind; but, after all, he was nothing to the cyclone of 
the broncos, and no casualties occurred. 

Next day, riding out again, my friend met a Mex- 
ican boy, carrying a string of trout. Whew! Then 
his eyes did brighten! There was nothing on earth 
he loved quite so well as trout, ever since the four- 
year-old days when Gran’pa carried him along the New 

40 


A/p Friend Will 


41 


Hampshire trout-brooks and talked to him even as he 
fished. Now Will reined up in front of the lad and 
grunted, “ N-h? ” (which was as near as he could 
come to articulate sound), joggling his chin forward 
at the fish. 

The boy looked puzzled; but he was too much a 
boy to be stupid long. “N-h?” could mean only 
“ Where’d you get them? ” So he promptly replied, 
“ El rito arriba ” 

Trout in the Santa Fe Canon? H’m! 

At four o’clock next morning my friend and Per- 
fecto were clattering past the hospital, and something 
suspiciously like a rod stood whip-fashion in one of 
the tall boots. 

When the sun came up they had made ten miles. 
A horse could go no farther up the canon, for the 
cliffs. Will picked out a leafy spot, wriggled about in 
the saddle until he over-balanced and fell to the 
ground, alighting on that hard head and sound arm. 
He tied Perfecto’s reata to a tree, and the rest of the 
day was dragging himself on his belly over the rough 
ground, fishing. 


42 


Mp Friend Will 


At sunset he crawled up a half-fallen tree, pulled 
Perfect© to him, scrambled over into the saddle with 
infinite difficulty, and rode home — with twenty-nine 
trout in his basket. 

That sort of thing was repeated daily for about 
four months. Then the helpless leg began to have a 
bit of life, so that, by taking hold of something. Will 
could rise. What pleased him quite as much was that 
he became able again to hum the Spanish songs he 
had collected with such labor, which had seemed 
utterly wiped out by the third shock. 

And at last, one blessed autumn day, as he rode 
up the canon humming 'the air of 

‘‘ Me es precis© el despedirme,” 


he suddenly heard himself singing the words: 



My Friend Will 


43 


f 7 — - r 

r ‘ r r J rr-r- r- , a- 


) ir «• 

^.^1 11. 1 r^i i«i« 

\ Wn trr-: ^ 

* ♦ J J "J • r 

UAr ”g ^ ^ 



y Per- 0 $Um prt tau-ti-va U Je-jo Con cad t nat de mt cor a eon 

‘ But for-ev-«r a captive I leave thee, in the chains that are linked of my heart 

.ji «. ► 1 . 

ni> 7 ■ r 1 ■ - . A. . 

T w* V 

~a -a 

a m 

. ■ 1 

1 11 k. 

1 F W. 

a< 7 


1 ^ 

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IV 0 


^ J 


I T a 


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1 a 1 

^ - 1 



/ if* ' 

» r " i a r 1 

r r r 

_i F r 

- -g 

^ D 

r ' r_ 


^ I . 

A 1 i A 



^ .. 


t/ c 


Al salir de esta casa 

Saldremos con honor; 

Al salir de esta casa 

Saldremos con honor. 
Adios, adioSj adios! 

Sehores pa po me vop. 
Adios^ adios ^ adios! 

Sehores pa po me vop. 

As from this house ive sail]). 
With honor rve sally so; 

As from this house me sally. 
With honor me sally so. 
Good-bye, good-bye, good-bye! 

My masters, for nom I go. 
Good-bye, good-bye, good-bye! 
My masters, for nom I go. 


This song " Me Es Preciso” (And I Must Go) recorded and translated by 
Charles F. Lummis and harmonized by Arthur Farwell. 


44 


My Friend Will 


It was just up by the old era — the same hardpan 
threshing floor of primitive people ever since the day 
of Abraham, and the same threshing machine — a 
flock of goats running round and round the circle 
and trampling out the grain with their recurrent 
hoofs. And the Mexican threshers have told me that 
he looked like a ghost, and not like the brown-tanned 
man they had watched for months spurring up the 
canon. But he said nothing to them, beyond the 
accustomed nod and grunt. I presume he wished to; 
but there was One at home who had a right to the 
first words, and he wheeled and rode back in silence. 

“ What on earth makes his face shine so? ** queried 
the Secretary’s family as he rode into the yard. 

But no one knew until he was safe in the room 
with the One and burst like a bomb with: 

“I can talk!” 


The Mexican ** threshing machine** where ** Will* s** speech 







I 







I 

i 

4 


I 


A A -IT. --- 



I 





I 


; 








VII 



FTER that the tide turned. He came in time 


to walk and speak as well as ever, though 
the dwindled left arm still hung lifeless at 


his side. 

He returned to the pueblo, to his hunting and 
exploring, his making of pictures and breaking of 
broncos. He even built a couple of log houses for 
friends who had taken a crazy notion to plant a home 
on the top of a ten-thousand-foot peak; felling the 
trees himself, peeling, hewing, and placing them, 
making tin roofs, and all that sort of thing. His 
writings found a market now, so the miseries of 
utter poverty disappeared; while his studies of the 
lore and language of his neighbor Indians, and of 
other tribes, and of the documentary history of the 
ancient Southwest, gave him a place in science. 

The many and great changes that followed, now, 
in bewildering succession, were more important to 
Will at the time than to this record. Some were good 


45 


46 


A/p Friend Will 


and some were not ; and some that were loveliest then 
turned out worst, and some that were hardest came 
somehow to serve him to advantage long. Some 
seemed merely Fate. Between them, anyhow, they 
kept him spurred; and the advantage, too, of being 
able to work with his head and his hand was really 
encouraging. By now he had grown powerful again. 
With doing double duty, the right arm had grown 
an inch about the biceps, and seemed to have added 
to its own strength that of the lost left. 

At last on the fifth of July, three years and seven 
months to the day from the first shock, the wonder of 
it all befell. It had been a long day’s ride across the 
llano, and wound up at the little adobe under the 
giant cottonwoods in Bernalillo. Here one of the little 
girls of the long-ago Christmas, when Will first came 
into the heart of a Spanish home, had come to her 
own nest; and supper-time rang joyfully with mem- 
ories of that decade past, and of the Yankee wanderer 
floundering with less than three words of Spanish in 
a home where none spoke any other tongue. And 
after the table-talk of the dear old days, and with its 


Friend Will 


47 


warmth on them, Will and his wife came to their own 
room. And as she knelt beside his chair, saying nicer 
things than he deserved, she suddenly clutched him 
to keep him from falling, for he was white and staring. 

For a few minutes there was great consternation 
in the room, and then a rapid change; and Spanish 
friends and husband and wife were all tangled in a 
muddle of hugs and tears and exclamations. 

And what do you imagine had scared him so? 

Merely this — his unthinking eyes had taken note 
that his hand was stroking his wife’s hair. Well? Yes, 
but it was the left hand — the withered arm that in 
three years and seven months had never moved a 
muscle, nor had a sensation! 

The little clot of blood in the brain had wholly 
moved on, at last, and left my friend a well man again. 


VIII 


A LITTLE over a year later I found him on 
the top of the Misti — that 19,300 peak 
which guards the beautiful city of Arequipa 
in Peru — and not only up there, but trotting around 
with the same old camera, and making pictures of 
the crater, while the Indians who were supposed to 
carry the burden were sitting down and trying to 
catch their breath. He was not as tough as I had 
known him years before — but evidently good enough 
for practical purposes, and indeed “worth several 
dead men yet,” as'he remarked. 

All this was many years ago ; and nowadays every- 
thing seems to go swimmingly with my friend. He 
is, perhaps, about as hard-headed as ever, but he has 
found good uses for persistence. And he learned it 
all in these cruel years in New Mexico, as he himself 
admits. 

“ The great lesson it taught me,” he says, “ is 
that man was meant to be, and ought to be, stronger 
and more than anything that can happen to him. 
Circumstances, ‘ Fate,* ‘ Luck,* are all outside ; and if 
he cannot always change them, he can always beat 


48 


Friend Will 


49 


them. If it had not worked its way into my broken 
brain that Captain I held the fort; that the only key 
was my own volition, and that unless I wilfully sur- 
rendered, nothing could take the citadel, I should have 
been dead long ago. If I could n’t have what I wanted, 
I decided to want what I had — and that simple 
philosophy saved me. Yes, and it has turned my most 
terrible misfortunes into good, right along. My 
paralysis, for instance, was the luckiest thing that 
ever befell me. It not only turned me to my proper 
work, and in a larger field, but it taught me what I 
was good for, and how to make the best of things — 
myself included.” 

Not long ago he summed it thus, amid some rem- 
iniscent verses: 

From the Andes* head to the desert's heel. 

Ever}) level of life and land — 

All harpe been glad to teach, 

I have been quickened to feel; 

Jo^ed and suffered and learned each — 

Learned from pain and the Face of Death, 
Learned the lives I have given breath; 

Taught ml; Sorrows to lick my hand. 

My Pleasure to know the rein. 


50 


Mj; Friend Will 


This is not meant to be a biography of this boy- 
hood friend of mine. He has had a curious career, but 
I have told you the things that specially relate to the 
text we started with. He is past fifty now, and still 
able to play twenty hours a day — for now he has 
learned not to hurry nor worry ; so it is n’t work. And 
having long ago played Probate Court for himself and 
proved his own Will, is now happiest in considering 
the codicils thereto. I judge that in the main they 
are of the same tenor as the original Will, and that 
none of them will ever be broken. And if he has had 
as hard experiences since, they have not been so alone. 
‘‘Immortality?” says he: “Let’s take it while we 
can! Whatever comes later — to the good! But 
meantime, children are the instalment immortality 

— and every year of every one of them is worth an 
aeon later; and we live again in them, and for them 
and by them. If Ponce de Leon had been wise, he 
would not have lost his life seeking a fountain of 
perpetual youth in water. Blood is thicker and better 

— and no fable. I thought I knew what life was — 
and had industriously turned it inside out to discover. 


M}) Friend Will 


51 


and with a rather unusual variety of opportunities. 
But I didn’t know a thing about it until the little 
teachers showed me. And I guess I did n’t even know 
until I stood this side the door through which one of 
my little ones had passed away from me.” 

I have taken these experiences of Will’s a good 
deal to heart, seeing how much good they have done 
him; and you can understand why I do not look at 
paralytics or other “ unfortunates ” as some people 
do. Whether they are “ good for anything ” to the 
world or themselves depends upon what they think 
about it. Will was as badly off as the worst of them, 
and he has continued to be a decidedly active and not 
wholly useless person. But perhaps he will object to 
my so free use of him to point a moral? 

N — no, I’m quite sure not. He rarely finds fault 
with what I do — and never in company. In fact, 
such close friends are we that I sometimes affection- 
ately call him “ My Will.” 


t 




i 

■( 

1 






i 

i 

'i 














The Little Boy Who Was, Amado Bandelier Lummis 


t 


The Little Boy That Was* 

T he Den is dim this month. It is at best but 
room for the Lion’s passing thought ; and 
to-day his thought paces up and down a narrow 
bound. He has just closed the eyes of one he hoped 
should one day do that office for him. He has just 
surrendered to the incorrupting flames the fair husk 
of what had been his tawny-maned cub; the lad he 
would have made a Man; the lad who was a Man at 
six — an old-fashioned, gentle, fearless little knight, 
whose first thought was always for others; whose last 
words, in the agony for breath, were “ Yes, please ” ; 
a lad so big-eyed and slender and girlish-sweet that 
one half thought Nature had misdressed him, until 
one noted that his undefiant eye never fell before any 


'From “In the Lion’s Den” (editorial in Out West magazine), January, 1901 

53 


54 


The Little Boy That Was 


eye, nor ever wavered ; that he never lied nor dodged, 
nor shirked his fault, nor skulked from its consequence. 
And when an eighteen-year-old bully made to duck 
his pet kitten, he went white and snatched a club and 
fairly awed the burly tormentor off the field. Love, 
we are born into; but to win respect is victory for a 
lifetime, long or short. It is well with the boy. But 
the Lion had not cubs to spare. 

We least discuss the thing that is next us all. 
After our coming, our only unanimous share is to go. 
Health, love, happiness — these are for many, perhaps 
for most, but at least some fail of them. And we talk 
of these matters every day. But there is one surety 
for every mother’s son — that he shall in his time rest 
him in the lap of the dark All-Mother. And of her 
we think and speak only upon compulsion, and with 
a shiver as if she were our Foe, and as we could dodge 
her by evading her name. 

The Lion has known Death in many forms and in 
many lands, and many times thought to be elect of it ; 
and whether seen or apprehended, it has never seemed 
to him hideous. In a decent world, nothing which is 


The Little Bo^ That Was 


55 


universal and inevitable can be hideous. Its settings 
may be cruel; but Death itself is not hard — as prob- 
ably all know who have often faced the gray Change. 
Nor have I ever seen one die afraid. The swift pat of 
a bullet, the sweet drowsiness of mortal cold, the 
queer, weak content of an unstanched bleeding, the 
mechanical halt of breath in a peaceful bed — none of 
that is hard. It is easy to die. It is not even an effort. 

To live is work. Inside us, but without our man- 
* date, our ceaseless navvies of heart and lungs toil over 
their unbroken tread-mill. That two-pound valve — 
the only muscle which is independent of its landlord’s 
will — lifts more in a lifetime than its two hundred- 
pound owner could. And all this strange, involuntary, 
tremendous enginery travails without rest that we may 
be things that beyond it all shall, for ourselves, toil 
and hope, win and lose, love bitter-sweet, and be 
bereaved even as we love; that we shall have our 
faiths and our doubtings, our ideals and our disillu- 
sions, our joys and our agonies. If it were as cruel 
to die as to be left, the world would be a mad-house. 
But it is no trouble to die. 


56 


The Little Bo^ That Was 


But we who must for now stay this side that im- 
penetrable door our hopes have passed — how shall 
we do? Shall we beat upon its unechoing panel, and 
cry aloud? Shall we lie dumb beside it, useless to 
them that are still unushered as to him who has passed 
through? Shall we treat it as a special trap laid by 
Providence to pinch Us? Is it an affront and robbery? 
A personal spite of heaven upon our marked head? 
Shall we be broken, or bitter, or hardened? 

Or shall we go on the more like men, for having 
now all man’s burdens, in the ranks that need us? 
Shall we envy them that are spared our pain, or find 
new sympathy for the innumerable company that have 
tasted the cup before us, and the greater hosts that 
shall taste it after? Shall we “won’t play” because 
the game is against us? Or play it the more steadily 
and the more worthily for very love and honor of the 
dead? These are new questions the Lion has to ask 
himself. Perhaps it will do no harm to ask them out 
loud. For there are others at the same cold black- 
board even now. 

They who have lived and suffered should be able 


The Little Bo^ That Was 


57 


to understand the springs of human action. I can 
comprehend how men lie, steal, murder. Even how 
men, for a child’s death, curse God — and accurse all 
in His image that are bounden to them. They see it 
that way — and man always justifies himself somehow 
for whatever he does. But, from another point of 
view, that all seems impudent and cowardly. If a 
man cared really more for his child than for himself, 
should it not occur to him that the only thing he can 
do now for that promoted soul is to be worthier to 
have begotten it? To be a wiser man, a juster man, 
a tenderer man; a little gentler to the weak, a little 
less timorous of “advantage,” a little more unswerv- 
ing in duty as I see it, a little more self-searching to 
be sure I see it straight — what else can I do now for 
my little boy? It is good to remember; but the vital- 
ity of remembering is to Do for its sake. 

How to “ bound ” God, north, south, east, and 
west, like sing-song children in the geography, I have 
not the remotest idea. I know nothing of Him, except 
that He is the Best I Know. But perhaps we can all 
agree that the nearest we futile mites ever come to the 


58 


The Little Bo^ That Was 


Infinite is in our home. If God is not lodged in a 
baby’s love for father and mother, and in their love for 
him — why, the poor coward that Denies is right, 
after all. Whatever it is, whoever it is, that can evoke 
from my body a frail new life stronger than my own, 
a new soul to love me and to teach me a greater love ; 
that can uphold me — or give me to uphold myself — 
when the candle of my hope goes out and I am left 
groping in the dark — so much I can call God. I 
could not call so a Power so unoccupied as to busy 
itself with lending me a child till it should be half my 
soul, and then calling in the loan to see me squirm 
or because He needed that gentle companionship 
more than I did. Whatsoever the Power is which 
goes by many names, and in as many dimensions as 
there are men, it is adequate and it is trustworthy — 
and trust means to trust when it is hard. And the 
one reason why death is bearable from outside is be- 
cause life is appointed a chance to earn its rest, and 
because love can outlast it. 

Out of his pain, the Lion wishes a good New Year 
to all the world. To his friends, that they be not 


The Little Bo^ That IVas 


59 


so hardly tested, if so may be; but that in any event 
they may have the mastery. To his enemies — who 
are next-best, for while friends share our sorrows, a 
good foe can help us drown them — either better eye- 
sight (for we are all only as we see), or more muscle 
in their myopia. Wanton riot is out of the Lion’s 
way; but he does not know of anything just now 
which could so assuage him as to have some one come 
along looking for trouble to some cause he loves. 

To his country and to all the lands of the earth, 
peace with justice, content in conscience. 

To the world, all and several, the best one year 
can bring — not, perhaps, the easiest, but the Best. 
If right to stay right; if wrong to be set right. And 
whether it is to be a good New Year or not, is in our 
own hands, each for himself and for so many as he 
can reach. 



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